


A Third Party

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-30 19:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5176838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recovered from his injuries, Sherlock has to find a new flatmate if he is to resume working with Lestrade. A series of suicides puts pressure on the DI to get things sorted quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story seeks to explain a number of puzzling elements of the Study in Pink. In particular, why did Lestrade wait until FOUR serial suicide victims before getting Sherlock started? Greg goes into the press conference about the three victims, and Sherlock has to embarrass him by texting "wrong" to everyone. And then why was Sherlock quite so ecstatic about him coming to him when the fourth victim came to light? There is an interesting power play going on between the two men- provoked by Sherlock, who forces Lestrade into admitting that he "needs" Sherlock's help. And, as Sherlock had only JUST taken on the lease for Baker Street, how did Lestrade know where to find him? There was no doorbell rung, and Mrs Hudson was upstairs, so Lestrade just let himself in and came upstairs- so how/why did he have a key? As of the last story in the Got My Eye on You (Consequences) explained, we now know just why Sherlock was looking for someone (ie John) to share a new two bed flat. And, given the last story, we might also have an idea why Mycroft got quite so protective- enough to interrogate John and to show up at the scene where Sherlock is talking to Lestrade and then John after the cabbie was shot. If these (and any other puzzling elements) have plagued your mind as much as mine, then accept this is an attempt to get the back story, explaining just why the first series opener took the plot line it did.

**Chapter One**

Lestrade was beginning to really feel the heat of disapproval from his superiors. His Murder Investigation Team picked up the case after the second suicide. The local station's investigation of Sir Jeffrey Patterson's death had concluded suicide, over the protests of his widow. When the second suicide of the teenager, Jamey Phillimore, at a local leisure centre in south London, followed a little over a month later, using exactly the same MO, and involving the same poison cocktail, from an identical pill bottle to the one used in Patterson's case, the Homicide and Serious Crime division took over, and Lestrade's team got the case. They'd been plodding along, but every lead became a blind alley. Under normal circumstances Greg would have involved a certain consulting detective, but when Sherlock nearly got himself killed chasing a suspect at almost the same time as the first suicide, that wasn't possible.

Then last night, some eight weeks later, an MP who was also a Junior Transport Minister, took her own life in exactly the same way.

The Detective Chief Superintendent called him while he was at the crime scene.

"Make it quick, Lestrade. This one is attracting way too much publicity."

A Scotsman with a no-nonsense approach, the DCS admitted that his own superior, the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, was leaning on him, so he was in turn leaning on Lestrade. "Dead MPs just make for headlines we don't want to read, so work your usual magic."

The trouble was, as Greg well knew, his "magic" was still being kept off limits. Mycroft Holmes had laid down the law twelve weeks ago. The consulting detective would not be allowed to deal with any hot cases until he found a flatmate and finally moved into Baker Street- and then only if Mycroft approved. Despite signing the lease and moving the bulk of his belongings to Baker Street more than a week ago, Sherlock was not being allowed to take up residence until he found someone to share.

Caught between his personal concern for Sherlock and his need to do his job, Greg decided to call Mycroft from the crime scene. This time Mycroft answered- that female voice who usually filtered his calls must have gone off duty this late. He explained to Mycroft where he was and the who the latest victim was. "I really need his help on this one. So why can't he get started now?"

"No."

"Mycroft, for God's sake; it was an MP, a minister!"

Mycroft's reply was succinct: "I don't care, Lestrade. If Sherlock is allowed to move in on his own, he will find a hundred reasons to reject every candidate, and he'll then sit there happily in an expensive two bedroom flat, and we will back to square one. No cases until he moves in; no moving in until he finds a flatmate. And I would not complain, if I were you, Detective Inspector; after all, this was your idea in the first place, and you will just have to stick by it." The line went dead.

By the time he'd cleared the crime scene at the building site where Beth Davenport's body was found, it was nearly dawn. If Greg timed it right, he'd have just enough time to get home and have a shower. In the back seat of the squad car, he closed his eyes for a moment, but before he could enjoy the respite, his mobile vibrated with an incoming text message:

**7.15am Help, I'm being held hostage by a minor official of the British Government. Come to my rescue NOW SH**

Greg sighed. He called home to tell Louise that he would be going straight into the office, but there was no reply and her mobile was switched off.  _Still asleep? Lucky her!_ He stopped off at Montague Street, and let himself in. It was an unwritten rule of Greg's- as he had given Sherlock a key to his flat, so he had a key made for Sherlock's flat. "It's either me or your brother, Sherlock, which would you prefer?"

The living room looked oddly bare, missing Sherlock's usual clutter. The brunet was sitting on the sofa with a scowl on his face.

Greg wasn't in any mood for anything. "So, where are the handcuffs? I don't see any visible signs of you being held hostage. You shouldn't cry wolf, you know, Sherlock. Next time it actually happens, I might think you are just pulling my leg."

"Lestrade, I've just wasted the whole of yesterday in the most pointless exercise, all because my brother is being a pedantic git."

The DI had some sympathy, but not enough to let Sherlock know it. "Look, Sherlock, I'm in the middle of an investigation that has kept me up all night and I don't have time to hear your woes about how finding a flatmate is proving difficult." He rubbed his eyes wearily.

Sherlock fixed him a black coffee as he continued to rant. Greg learned all about how advertising led to telephone enquiries and then actually having to meet people, and show them around the flat. Sherlock loathed both processes.

"You know how much I hate this sort of thing, even if it's just one new person. But a whole day of it is enough to drive me mad!"

"You handle client calls OK, and those are people you don't know."

Sherlock glowered at him. "Clients mean cases; I can put up with anything if there are cases at the other end of it. But, this…exercise...is enough to drive even a normal person mad."

After Sherlock's ad went live at nine yesterday morning, he'd fielded twenty calls from potential flatmates, all but six of whom abandoned the idea after the initial phone call. Sherlock's "I don't know why they'd do that, but at least it stopped me form having to actually endure their company or show them the flat." Greg smirked. Sherlock then explained that he met up with the six, but rejected them as being "boring", "tedious", or "so stupid as to be a positive threat to humanity".

When Lestrade suggested that he might be over-exaggerating, Sherlock just carried on.

"Really, Lestrade- a Pilates instructor? An accountant from Walsall? A civil servant from the Treasury? Actually, I think the last one was a plant from Mycroft. It would be just like him to try to foist a spy on me."

"Well, Sherlock, you're not exactly the most user-friendly flatmate yourself. I mean who would want to share with someone who plays a violin all night? Or who thinks a kitchen is just a lab bench? And what about lying on the couch for hours on end staring off into space? You may have to adjust your expectations a little."

Sherlock huffed and then tried to change the subject. "Come on then, tell me the latest about the serial suicides. If you can talk to the media, you can talk to me about them."

"Who says I've been talking to the media?"

Sherlock threw the morning edition of the Evening Standard across the room at him. "Page three"

The headline jumped off the page at him, as did the photo of him, taken from the Met's website. " _Yard Stumped by Suicide Killer's Third Murder_ ". Greg sighed. "lovely, just what I need." He rubbed his eyes again.

"Let me help."

"The media aren't likely to get me fired. Your brother is, if I breach the terms of our agreement. Find yourself a flatmate and he just might let you get involved."

The younger man stalked off toward the window where he stood looking out. "This is a pointless standoff."

"Yeah, well I'm not too happy about it either, because I would appreciate a little help right now but I can't get you involved."

Sherlock turned and gave Lestrade a sly smile. "It would serve Mycroft right if I went out and got a drug dealer to flatshare. Then he'd have something real to worry about."

Greg crossed his arms. "No, Sherlock that isn't going to happen. You know as well as I do that the flatmate has to be acceptable to both you and your brother. Those were the terms of the deal."

Sherlock didn't answer, as Greg shouldered his coat back on. "I've got to get to the office, and grab a shower and a fresh shirt. We've got a press conference at nine, and a briefing with the Head of Communications before that. I am being leaned on from high places to get things done in a hurry. So, please, Sherlock, don't waste any more of my time, just get on with it, will you?" With that plea, he left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: I am indebted to Ariane Devere's Live Journal transcripts of the Study in Pink; obviously, the dialogue from the episode is the property of Moffat/Gatiss and Hartwood Films, as well as the BBC. I make no apology for including so much of the dailogue from the actual episode, as it is the backstory and the thinking from Lestrade's POV that I am trying to get at

Nine o'clock came too early and quickly for Lestrade's taste. He was being pushed into doing the one thing he hated even more than telling relatives their loved ones had been murdered- a press conference, when there was nothing actually positive to relay to the press.

After all night on a crime scene and his fractious conversation with Sherlock, Greg was tired and cranky, so he let Donovan handle the preliminaries. Unlike him, she'd been off duty last night, and so was full of energy and enthusiasm. Unlike him, she loved press conferences as a chance to shine and draw attention to herself.  _Give her a break, she has to make the most of every chance she gets._  He sighed, and tried to regain his sense of proportion. Over the years, he had worked hard to ensure she was given the opportunity when they came. And, to be honest, the media were generally nicer to a woman, and a black woman at that, so it wasn't exactly a hardship for him to let her share the limelight.

Camera's flashed as the two of them entered the conference room and sat down. Greg listened with one ear at what she was saying, whilst watching the assembled ranks of journalists in front of him. There was a live TV camera feed being taken at the back. He was uncomfortable at the thought.

But Donovan was in her element. "The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is on-going but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

Greg took a deep breath, as the first reporter called on asked how it was possible that suicides could actually be linked. He explained about the poison being the same in all three cases, and that the method was the same and that none of the people had given any prior indication of suicidal thoughts.

It didn't go down well with the reporter, who interrupted to ask how suicides could be linked. Greg just stuck to the line that he'd cleared with the Met's Head of Communications. A second reporter butted in to ask whether there was any link between the three people involved.

"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one."

Suddenly, mobile phones in the audience started going off like mad. For a split second, Lestrade wondered whether some catastrophe or disaster had occurred that meant every news desk wanted their journalists onto it. He thought of 9/11 and what might be happening right now in the real world outside.

But then he realised that Sally's and his phones had gone off, too, and she was showing him the single word text message:

" **WRONG!"**

Lestrade then wondered if somehow the person behind the suicides was taunting him. The same thought must have occurred to Sally, who said in a firm voice. "If you've all got texts, please ignore them."

One of the reporters looked puzzled and said out loud, "just says ' **Wrong!** '"

Donovan was determined to keep control of the situation, so she reiterated her point: "Yeah, well just ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end." Greg agreed with that tactic; he'd been thrown a bit by the simultaneous text messages.

One of the reporters refused to be put off. "But, if they're suicides, what are you investigating?"

Worried about that question leading to the same sort of headline that the Standard had this morning, he tried to close this line of enquiry down. "As I say, these …these suicides are  _clearly_ linked. Um, it's an…it's an unusual situation." Then he decided to end it with the line that the Head of Communications pressed him to use. "We've got our best people investigating…"

But before he could finish the sentence, everyone's phone went off again. That same bloody reporter who had started the questioning now said it again. "Says ' **Wrong!** ' again."

Greg looked despairingly at Donovan, who tried to reassert control again. "One more question."

A reporter who had not spoken yet asked, "Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

Lestrade lost it a bit. "I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The poison was clearly self-administered." Greg was determiined to squash this murder story, as the Medical examiner and the Forensic teams on all three murders were adamant about suicide.

The reporter wasn't satisfied, and before Sally could get a word in, he asked "Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"

That threw Lestrade; it wasn't a question they'd rehearsed, and the reporter was being a twit. He just answered honestly. "Well, don't commit suicide."

Sally murmured quietly "Daily Mail", as if warning him,  _be careful._

Lestrade tried to explain, so that his earlier remark wouldn't sound too glib.  _Be respectful_ , the Head of Communications had urged him. He imagined what Louise would be saying, as a PR professional. No doubt, he'd get a lecture from her tonight. So Greg tried, "Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anybody has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

Again, the phones went off, but this time the same message " **Wrong!"**  wasn't appearing on his phone, although it was on Sally's. His message was more direct- and signed, too.

**You know where to find me. SH**

With an annoyed look, Greg stood up and said "Thank you" and walked out with Sally trailing behind. In the privacy of the corridor on the way to his office, she exploded.

"You've  _got_  to stop him doing that; he's making us look like idiots." She was livid, now that she knew it was Sherlock Holmes who had disrupted her moment on the public stage.

Greg gave her a resigned look. "Well, if you can tell me  _how_  he does it, I'll stop him."

By the time he got into his office and shut the door, he'd reassessed his initial exasperation. While personally embarrassing to him and Donovan, Sherlock's intervention would not have been missed by a certain British Government official. Ramping up the public pressure for a solution, and being clear that he would help if he could, was Sherlock's way of throwing a gauntlet down in front of his brother.

 _It just might work._  Greg hoped so, because he was totally lost. Having declared to the world that the three cases must be linked, he had absolutely no idea of even where to begin trying to find that link.


	3. Chapter 3

Two days later, Greg got the lucky break he was praying for. Sally was explaining how the team was pulling together data about how the poison pills were made, and that they were now contacting every pharmaceutical company they could find to get their client lists.

"That will take ages to collate- and our murderer could be getting the stuff anywhere- outside of London or even overseas." He tried to keep his scepticism down; he didn't like discouraging initiative, especially when he wasn't coming up with investigation ideas of his own.

It was so frustrating. None of the other lines of enquiry led anywhere. The pill bottles were the sort that travellers used to deal with airline regulations. Literally dozens of different manufacturers and thousands of outlets world-wide. The four victims had never met, shared no common contacts, had no characteristics in common. There was nothing to draw together a banker, a teenager and an MP. They were born in different places in the UK, lived in different parts of London, had no common activities. It was utterly baffling. Yet, at the same time, Lestrade knew that there  _had_  to be a link.

The medical examiners were adamant. It was the same poison, made up into pills. Not a common one, this was tailor-made by someone who knew his stuff. Yet, all three of the lethal ingredients were actually easy to source, however, so it would not be simple to find someone who had bought all three and knew how to put them together. The bodies showed no signs of duress- no ligature marks, no bruising, nothing to suggest that they had been forced against their will to take the pills. Yet, none of the forensic teams had managed to find a suicide note- not with the bodies, or on any e mails, letters or texts to loved ones.

He could hear that snide comment echoing in the back of his mind.  _You see, but you do not observe, Lestrade._ He stood in front of the evidence whiteboard with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.  _Yes, Sherlock, but what is it that I am not getting here, apart from the obvious link that they've all taken their own life the same exact way?_

As if his thoughts had been read, his mobile went off- incoming text message.

**12.45 Flatmate nearly secured. Meeting him at Baker Street at 7pm. How's the investigation going? SH**

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. If Mycroft agreed, then he might just get that magic back to work, and not a moment too soon. The Chief Super had not been impressed with Lestrade's handling of the press; headlines ran one of two directions, either criticising the Yard for not having a clue, or talking about the mystery texter, and wondering if it was a serial murderer playing with them.

The team was steadily chewing its way through the phone calls when news came in from the Brixton police station- another body had been found at Lauriston Gardens.

After an hour at the scene, the DI was really at a loss- the body of Jennifer Wilson had been found by some kids who'd broken into a flat that was undergoing a complete refurbishment. The tell-tale pill bottle beside her, she had been dead for some hours. Unlike the previous occasions, which had seen weeks between the murders, this was the second within two days. Clear escalation- and that was something typical of serial murders. Once the oxygen of publicity hit, as it had with the MP's death, the psychopath would be excited enough to try again much more quickly.

The Forensic Team assigned to the case was run by CSE Anderson, and he was the one who pointed out the scratched floorboard, with the letters  _RACHE_  and the body's damaged nails. "A note? Maybe this one took longer to react to the poison and had time to scratch this word out."

Greg stood up and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed Sherlock. He walked back onto the landing outside the room and called Mycroft's number. Once again, a female voice answered.

"Detective Inspector, how may I help?"

"I need to talk to Mr Holmes right now."

"Mr Holmes is in a meeting that cannot be interrupted at the moment, but I will pass on a message."

Greg decided he could risk it, especially if Mycroft's attention was momentarily elsewhere.

"You can tell him that his brother is meeting his new flatmate at Baker Street in…" he checked his watch "less than an hour. I need Sherlock's help NOW. There's been another murder and I need his eyes on this crime scene without further delay. So, tell him that I intend getting Sherlock involved. He can vet this guy later."

oOo

The squad car slammed on its brakes outside 221b Baker Street, and Lestrade sprang out, dragging the key from his pocket. He'd had it made when he helped Sherlock move the books and heavy boxes into the flat, part of their reciprocal arrangement."If you can walk into my flat anytiime, I can with yours. You know the rules," he'd explained to Sherlock. He charged up the stairs and saw the tall brunet standing in front of the window, who turned to lock eyes with him.

The baritone "Where?" was peremptory, but there was electricity in the look he gave Lestrade- a half breathed, but unsaid  _at last!_

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." Greg didn't need to say more; Sherlock would know that this meant he was able to start work, that either Mycroft had agreed, or Lestrade had decided enough was enough.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different." Sherlock could hardly keep his excitement contained.

Greg stepped into the room but kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock. "You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did...Will you come?"

Sherlock didn't even question whether Mycroft had agreed. It didn't matter. He had told Greg that the flatmate was in the bag, so was free to say yes. But, he must have seen Lestrade's eagerness and then decided, cruelly, to play it out a bit. Greg restrained himself, trying to see it from Sherlock's point of view. He'd willingly accommodated Mycroft's rules, and even contributed to them, which Greg knew would have pissed off the younger Holmes. Suddenly, now that he knew he'd won, he was going to tell Lestrade just how much it had cost him to wait these twelve weeks. So, he coolly asked,"Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson."

Sherlock grimaced. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant." Greg's evident sarcasm was there to show his frustration with how Sherlock abused and ordered around the Forensic teams. He sensed the undercurrent from the young man, and wasn't about to let him come back and lord it over his team. _Behave, Sherlock!_

Sherlock just blurted out, "I  _need_  an assistant."

Greg decided to ignore that. "Will you come?" He didn't hide his impatience with the tall brunet. Sherlock had been whining for weeks about getting back onto cases; the DI knew that he'd accept the work.

Sherlock then nodded. "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

With a sigh of relief, Greg just said "Thank you." Then he looked around at the other two people in the room. The older woman, Mrs Hudson, he'd met before, when he and Sherlock were moving the boxes in.

The bloke sitting in the arm chair he assumed was the new flatmate. Greg was glad to see that the person actually existed. He wouldn't put it past Sherlock to invent an imaginary flatmate in his eagerness to get involved. But, as no call or text had been received from Mycroft to stop Greg, he was prepared to get Sherlock working on the cases unless advised otherwise. The DI didn't have time for introductions, so he just turned and rushed back down the stairs.

He hadn't reached the front door, however, when he heard a triumphant baritone voice shout out, "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" With a wry smile that accompanied him back into the police car, Greg couldn't agree more.  _Welcome back to case work, Sherlock!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I am indebted to Ariane Devere's Live Journal transcripts of the Study in Pink; obviously, the dialogue from the episode is the property of Moffat/Gatiss and Hartwood Films, as well as the BBC. I make no apologies for including the canon dialogue- I am hoping, however, that you will appreciate the back story behind the dialogue and how it links up with the past stories. As ever in this story line, it is seen from Greg Lestrade's point of view.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am indebted to Ariane Devere's Live Journal transcripts of the Study in Pink; obviously, the dialogue from the episode is the property of Moffat/Gatiss and Hartwood Films, as well as the BBC. This chapter inevitably relies almost entirely on the script for dialogue, but I hope adds value from the insight into Greg's thinking.

Greg managed to get back to the crime scene in Brixton before Sherlock. The police car had advantages over a taxi; sirens and lights allowed him to cross intersections. He'd never understood why Sherlock wouldn't accept the offer of a lift in one of the cars. Maybe it was bad associations with previous arrests and his times living homeless on the streets.

He was half way into his Forensic coverall again when the consulting detective strode in, clad in his usual long coat and blue scarf. The young man could scarcely contain the grin on his face. Behind him trailed a man Lestrade recognised – the bloke who had been sitting in the chair at Baker Street. He was slightly taken aback; why would Sherlock bring a potential flatmate with him to a crime scene?

He watched as Sherlock pointed to a pile of blue suits and told the man to put one on.

"Who's this?" Greg asked Sherlock; if he was going to bring the guy along, he could at least introduce him.

Sherlock just replied enigmatically as he stripped off his leather gloves, "He's with me." He reached for the box of sterile latex gloves.

That wasn't good enough for Greg. He would get enough grief from the team having Sherlock there after a three month break; a stranger would be doubly unwelcome. "But, who  _is_ he?"

Sherlock snapped back, "I  _said_ , he's with me." He glared at the DI. In other words, back off.

As he put on a pair of white cotton overshoes, Lestrade looked at the flatmate properly for the first time. Older than Sherlock, by about five or six years? Ash blonde hair cut short. For a moment, Greg wondered whether Sherlock would have been daft enough to carry through with this threat to find a drug dealer to share. But the man in front of him now just didn't look the part. No prison tats, no macho way of standing. That's when Greg noticed the cane, which threw him a little. Other than that, the guy looked remarkably ordinary. The DI saw him take off his jacket and pick up a blue coverall, stepping into it. The man asked Sherlock mildly, "Aren't you going to put one on?"

The accent wasn't London, but not particularly northern either. Somewhere in the Home Counties, most likely. Lestrade was puzzled, Where the hell would Sherlock have run across someone so… normal? And why on earth would a normal person agree to share a flat with someone like Sherlock? No, re-phrase that, he told himself, why would an ordinary person who just signed up to share a flat be willing to come with his new acquaintance to  _a crime scene?_  Just who was this guy?

Sherlock just looked at the shorter man after the question about the forensic coverall. It brought back a memory for Greg, of the time three years ago when at a crime scene he'd looked around for Sherlock, and realised he was missing. When he eventually found him in an empty room away from the crime scene, Sherlock was curled up in a ball, gasping for breath in the early stages of a panic attack, with the torn shreds of his blue forensic coverall lying in the middle of the room. Greg had taken one look and realised that somehow Sherlock had just gone through a melt-down all on his own. When he finally managed to get the consultant detective able to talk again, he was told in no uncertain terms that he would never, ever wear "that thing" again. The smell of the plastic fabric, the feel of it against his skin, the sound it made every time he moved was just "too much to take, no matter how important it is to the work." Lestrade had found a way around it, getting the Forensic officers to take a sample of just about everything Sherlock wore, his hair, skin and DNA so it could be ruled out in future investigations. If it was further evidence that he was willing to bend rules to accommodate that brain, then his team were told just to shut up and take it.

So, when Sherlock did not explain to his flatmate why he wasn't wearing one of the forensic suits, Greg knew he was not ready to reveal so much about himself. The shorter guy just shook his head as if slightly puzzled, and carried on slipping on the white shoe covers that Greg had, and then looked at Sherlock's uncovered shoes, with slight amusement.

Sherlock asked Greg, "So, where are we?"

Greg picked up a pair of gloves himself. "Upstairs." He led the way up two flights of the staircase. He said over his shoulder, "I can give you two minutes."

Sherlock replied casually, "May need longer."

Greg explained as they reached the landing, "Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

Greg led them into the room, and watched as Sherlock saw the body for the first time. The lanky brunet held out a hand in front of himself as he focused on the corpse. Greg had seen him do this before- it was a sort of measuring tool that the consulting detective used to deduce approximate height and a way of fixing the image of the corpse in that photographic mind of his.

Because Greg was keeping his eye on Sherlock, he didn't see the look of pain and sadness cross the flatmate's face as he looked at the woman on the floor. The three men stood silently for a few moments, lost in their own thoughts.

"Shut up." Sherlock sounded impatient.

Lestrade reacted defensively, startled. "I didn't say anything." You would have thought after years of working with Sherlock, he'd know better, but the twelve week gap meant he'd sort of forgotten just how rude Sherlock could be when he was at a scene.

"You were thinking; it's annoying."

Greg looked at the flatmate. While he was routinely used to getting this sort of abuse from Sherlock, he found himself worrying about what the still unnamed man would think. The bloke looked amused.

Sherlock walked forward and examined the scratched letters on the floor and the broken nails. Then he squatted down and ran his gloved fingers along the back of her coat, lifting them to look at what he found. He reached into her pocket and pulled a white folding umbrella out and then ran his finger along its furls before looking at the finger again. He moved up to the collar of her coat and repeated the process. Then the brunet pulled out his small magnifier, clicked it open and examined her jewellery – a bracelet, an earring and necklace, then her rings on her left hand. He pulled off the wedding ring and examined the inside. The whole process took less than a minute.

When he saw Sherlock smile, Lestrade knew it was safe to interrupt. "Got anything?"

A nonchalant "Not much" is uttered as Sherlock stood and took his gloves off. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and began keying something into it.

Anderson was standing in the doorway now, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. "She's German. 'Rache'- it's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something."

Sherlock walked quickly toward the door and began to close it, as he said sarcastically "Yes, thank you for your input" before shutting it in the Crime Scene Examiner's face.

Greg looked puzzled. "So, she's German?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course, she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night….before returning to Cardiff." He was looking at his phone with a smile. "So far, so obvious."

The man standing beside Lestrade spoke for the first time since coming in the room. "Sorry- obvious?" His incredulity was evident.

Greg ignored him. "What about the message, though?"

The DI was surprised when Sherlock did not respond to his question, but rather looked at the man standing next to him.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

It was Greg's turn to be puzzled. Was Sherlock actually asking this guy, this  _stranger_ , to get involved in the forensic work? That was ridiculous. "Wait, no, we have a whole team outside."

"They won't work with me."

He was used to this sort of prima donna attitude from Sherlock, but this time Greg decided to put his foot down. "I'm breaking every rule letting  _you_  in here." The clear implication was that he didn't want this flatmate, this…doctor involved in the crime scene, but there was also the unspoken fact that both men knew- Mycroft Holmes had not yet signed off on Sherlock working on cases again, and Greg was risking a lot breaking that rule.

Sherlock's answer was brutally honest. "Because you  _need_  me." Behind that tense statement was the past twelve weeks of frustration at being kept off cases.

Greg locked eyes with the consulting detective for a tense moment, and then lowered his gaze. "Yes, I do. God help me." It was an admission that whatever Sherlock was playing at by having his flatmate with him on the crime scene, Lestrade was going to put up with it.

Sherlock called out to the man, who was looking at the body. "Doctor Watson?"

The man looked up first at Sherlock but then turned his gaze toward Lestrade, seeking permission there.

 _A doctor? What sort of doctor?_  But Greg saw the impatience on Sherlock's face, so he conceded defeat. With irritation, he just said, "Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." Annoyed he stalked over to the door, opened it and left the room, calling out on the landing, "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

When Greg returned, the doctor was down, kneeling beside the body. He put his head down close to the woman's head and sniffed, then lifted a hand and looked at her skin. "Yeah, asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

Sherlock was watching the doctor, really watching him. Greg realised he was deducing something about the doctor. "You know what it was. You've read the papers." Sherlock prompted.

"What, she's one of the suicides- the fourth?

 _He's using this crime scene to figure out something about this new flatmate._ Greg decided to butt in. Sherlock could play his mind games on his new flatmate on his own time; Lestrade had a crime scene to run. "Sherlock. Two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

Sherlock stood up and rattled off the most amazing series of deductions Greg had heard him utter at a crime scene for the past five years. Maybe because he'd been stifled for almost three months, this time the stuff just poured out of him. Not only her occupation, where she was from (Cardiff) and the fact that she had come for London for only one night, but also the state of her married life, her series of lovers and the fact that her roll-on overnight suitcase was missing. At one point Greg just interjected "Oh, for God's sake if you're just making this up…" which sent Sherlock off onto another frenzied bout of deduction delivered at blistering speed. The flatmate just looked astonished, and he said so- "That's brilliant" when Sherlock explained how he deduced her adultery by the dirt on her ring's outer surface combined with a clean inside. Greg questioned how the detective had figured out Cardiff, and got a detailed description of weather conditions in London compared to South Wales and the moisture on Jennifer Wilson's coat, collar and umbrella, combined with wind speeds and time of travel, ending with Sherlock's phone being thrust in his face with the Cardiff weather report.

When the doctor was stunned into an amazed "That's fantastic!" Greg watched Sherlock's reaction. The brunet just turned to look at the shorter man and said quietly, "You know you do that out loud?" That provoked a sheepish "Sorry, I'll shut up" from the doctor. What amazed Greg more was Sherlock's reply," No, its…fine." That's when Greg realised that part of the deduction frenzy had been designed to impress the new flatmate. Sherlock was actually showing off.  _Wow, I've never seen him care enough about what someone thought to do that- not even me!_

All that said, Lestrade couldn't ignore the one glaring problem. "Why do you keep saying 'suitcase'? That led to a heated exchange, where Sherlock showed splash marks on the tights of the murdered woman and asked again what had been done with the case, as he needed a phone or organiser to find out who Rachel was.

When Greg pointed out that no case had been found, Sherlock's reaction was immediate. "Say that again."

Greg frowned. Sherlock never needed things repeated, but he complied. "There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

Sherlock was out the door and shouting to the police officers in the house as he started down the stairs. "Suitcase, did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in the house?"

Greg leaned over the bannister to shout, "Sherlock, there was no case!" The doctor joined him to look down the stairs at Sherlock, who was now almost muttering to himself, "but they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves, There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." He had that far-off expression on his face that he had when he was re-visualising all the evidence in his mind.

That muttering drew annoyed glances from the other officers on the scene, who were watching Sherlock. Then he stated in a categorical tone, "It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides; they're killings-  _serial_  killings."

When he stopped on the step, he held his hands up in front of his face and said with delight, "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I  _love_  those, there's always something to look forward to!"

Both Lestrade and the Doctor peered over the bannister at Sherlock. The doctor's face betrayed his slight dismay at Sherlock's exuberant delight at the prospect of such a gruesome concept as a serial killer; Greg's reaction was a more knowing affection.  _He's finally back where he belongs!_


	5. Chapter 5

Watching Sherlock come to grips with the body at Lauriston Gardens, Detective Inspector Lestrade was enjoying every moment. But, as ever, he was struggling to keep up with the consulting detective's train of thought. If Greg was going to control Sherlock, he needed to slow him down long enough to keep the others of the team on side. After three months without Sherlock, the team would be resentful if he ignored them as he used to do. Worse still, in the back of Greg's mind was the worry that Mycroft Holmes had not officially signed off on Sherlock getting back to work, so it was crucial for the DI to keep Sherlock's natural enthusiasm under tight control. The worst case scenario would see Sherlock haring off on his own again, and coming to grief. If that happened on his first hot case for months, Lestrade just knew that Mycroft would pull the plug.

So, he tried to slow the pace down. Leaning over the bannister, he called down to Sherlock, "Why are you saying that?"

That made Sherlock turn and snap at him. "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?" He was exasperated. "Someone else was here, and they took her case." He turned away and muttered to himself, "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

The Doctor standing beside Lestrade called down to Sherlock. "She could have checked into a hotel; left her case there."

Sherlock frowned, rejecting the idea outright. "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left a hotel with her hair still looking…" He stopped in mid-flow, coming to a realisation. Greg heard the inevitable "Oh" with a smile.

Even from where he was standing, he could see Sherlock's eyes widen and his face light up. An even bigger "OH!" escaped, and then as if he could not contain himself, he even clapped his hands together in delight.

The flatmate was startled by the behaviour. "Sherlock?"

Greg knew more about what the process meant, so he leaned over the railing and called out "What is it, what?"

Sherlock was still in the afterglow of discovery. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

Greg grimaced. If he thought that his superiors were applying pressure after three, what would happen when news of this fourth became known? He shuddered to think. There was no way they could wait for a Fifth. "We can't just wait!"

Sherlock's answer was aimed at reassuring Greg. "Oh, we're  _done_  waiting." He started down the stairs at speed, calling back over his shoulder. "Look at her,  _really_ look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get onto Cardiff; find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

Greg had already planned all of that. "Of course, yeah, but what mistake?" He was confused by what Sherlock obviously thought he had gotten, but he didn't have a clue, and now Sherlock was half way out of the front door when he heard Greg's query. The DI heard him rush back in, come up a couple of stairs so he could see Greg and just shout "PINK!" before rushing out at speed again.

Greg stood back, baffled by the word, and then without looking at the doctor standing beside him, he turned back into the room to really look at the body again, to see if he could figure out what on earth Sherlock meant. Behind him, he could hear Anderson hurrying up the stairs with the team, saying "Let's get on with it."

As Sherlock bolted out of the front door, he was already running by the time he ducked under the police tape. Sally Donovan watched him go. Before he'd even turned up, Lestrade had asked her to do the usual "Sherlock watch", keeping up with him if he bolted the crime scene to provide back up. "It's even more important this time, Donovan; it's his first case back and I don't want anything to go wrong, so I'm asking you personally to take it on, rather than delegate it to a PC."  _This time, Freak, I'm not going to do it. After what you said to me and Philip, you've just pushed me too far. What I do in my private life is nothing to do with you, and embarrassing me in public like that is just way out of line._ If Lestrade gave her grief about it, she'd just say Sherlock was too quick for her, and she'd lost him.

A couple of minutes later, the guy that Sherlock had introduced to her as his "colleague" came out, obviously looking for Sherlock. She smirked. He had a lot to learn, and she was happy to dish the dirt. She walked up to him and started talking.

She'd just finished explaining that Holmes was a psychopath and that psychopaths get bored, when Lestrade came out of the front door, saw her and shouted for her to come over. She warned the bloke to stay away from Sherlock, and then headed back for what she knew would be a serious ear bashing from her DI.  _Tough. I'd rather that than be that nutter's babysitter._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More "bits between the scenes" - think of them as having ended up on the cutting room floor, plus an opportunity to see the broadcast episode from Greg's POV- with a bit of Sally thrown in for good measure.

Greg's fury at Sally Donovan was still chilling the air when she and the DI headed back to New Scotland Yard. The silence in the back of the police car made it clear to her that if anything happened to Sherlock, Lestrade would never forgive her, and would certainly write up a formal reprimand that would effectively stall her career. He trusted his team to follow his orders, no matter what their own agendas. He had just looked at her after her explanation, and said tersely, "respect the chain of command, Detective Sergeant Donovan, whatever your personal feelings are."

The Forensic team would still be hours at the scene, processing all that data, but Lestrade wanted to get to work as quickly as possible on Jennifer Wilson. So, he told Donovan in no uncertain terms what he wanted her to do, and how fast he expected it done. "You'll do it yourself, Detective Sergeant, and that's an order, just so there is no  _misunderstanding_. I want chapter and verse on Wilson- friends, family, why she was in London, where she was going, who she was planning on seeing. And I want it NOW." His tone was more direct and annoyed than she had ever heard it.

Back in his office, he paced. Should he contact Mycroft and see whether his team or SO6 had eyes on Sherlock? At least, he didn't think that Sherlock would be consciously trying to avoid cameras this time. The consulting detective had no reason to assume that he was in any trouble. It had been Lestrade's choice to get him involved in the case. Greg just hoped to God that nothing happened to Sherlock on his investigations into whatever the hell he meant when he shouted the word "PINK!" He scowled. It was such a horrible colour; he'd always loathed it. A stray memory surfaced of his early childhood, when everything he owned seemed to be a pink hand-me-down from his older sister Carole.

His patience snapped. He texted Sherlock.

**Where the HELL are you? GL**

The reply came back almost immediately.

**Chasing down PINK. Relax SH**

Well, at least his battery had not failed this time.

**What does pink have to do with "mistake"? GL**

**What's it like being so dim? _LOOK_! SH**

Greg switched on caps lock, and texted

**BE CAREFUL, YOU IDIOT! GL**

**Yes, mother. SH**

That made Greg chuckle. If there was any comfort to be taken from the situation it was that Sherlock was probably just as keen to avoid a problem as he was; the prospect of another enforced exclusion from case work would be just too horrible for him to contemplate. Or at least, Greg hoped so.

He went back into the incident room and watched the team posting up the evidence that they had collected from the latest suicide. He stood with his arms crossed, looking at each piece as it was put up. What was it about this latest incident, what was he supposed to  _look_  at? What had Sherlock seen that was a mistake by the killer? Why did he fixate so on this mythical suitcase? And what the hell did all of this have to do with the colour pink?

He was still standing there almost ninety minutes later when his phone went off. He grabbed it, hoping it was Sherlock, but the caller ID came up as Mycroft Holmes. He walked into his office with a sense of dread, and took the call.

"Good evening, Detective Inspector". The tone was neutral, and Greg found himself relaxing a tiny bit. At least he had not yet been threatened with being dragged off to the dungeons.

"I have taken the opportunity of meeting with Doctor Watson, as you suggested. And, to my surprise, he passes muster. His presence at the crime scene was noticed. Is he a recommendation of yours, Lestrade?"

"Not at all; don't know the guy from Adam. And Sherlock wasn't exactly forthcoming about how he found him, or, in fact, anything at all. Didn't introduce him, or even tell me his first name, just Watson and that he's a doctor."

"Interesting."

Yeah, it was, when Greg thought about it. "Did you learn anything more about the guy?"

"Of course, Detective Inspector, but then I have resources that you can only dream about. Remarkably, my brother may have managed to find someone acceptable, probably completely by mistake. We will see how long he lasts. Any normal person will crumble in a matter of days living in close proximity to Sherlock."

Greg got a bit annoyed at that. "We'll see. He seemed a sane enough bloke. And he wasn't freaked by Sherlock's work or the crime scene, so that's one potential landmine safely negotiated."

"Do keep better tabs on my brother, won't you? He still has a tendency to disappear off in pursuit of the odd clue."

Damn, Mycroft had seen that. "Yeah, well, there was a bit of miscommunication. Won't happen again, I promise."

"Do give my regards to Detective Sergeant Donovan. I have decided to take a special interest in her career. Perhaps some equality and diversity training might not go amiss."  _Ouch, better warn her not to make an enemy of Mycroft Holmes; that's a career limiting strategy!_

Greg decided the best tactic was to bluff him out. "Still playing the overprotective big brother role, Mycroft? I can assure you that Sherlock gives as good as he gets."

"Perhaps, Lestrade. But, the lack of proper back up has cost Sherlock the last three months of his life, so I do hope it won't be a regular feature of his work with you from now on."

"It won't be."

"Good night, Detective Inspector."

Greg heaved a sigh of relief. That's one of the Holmes brothers dealt with. Now if only he knew what was going on with the younger one, his night would be made.

He texted Sherlock again.

**BB is officially OK with this. Need you to update GL**

**Shut up. Back at flat THINKING SH**

Greg knew from experience that when Sherlock needed to think without interruption, he preferred to be horizontal, and with the minimum of distraction. But, by "flat" did Sherlock mean Montague Street or Baker Street? Greg bet it would be the former. Just how comfortable would he be with unfamiliar surroundings? Normally, when he wanted to think, he would retreat to a sofa, close his eyes and try to limit all the other sensory data. Sherlock did his best thinking In a shut-down mode.

If he was "thinking", then he must have found or not found whatever he was looking for when he bolted out of Lauriston Gardens.  _Wonder if that bugger has figured out that there really is a case?_ Greg came out of his office and bellowed for Donovan. "I want you to check out left luggage at Paddington Station. See if anyone answering Jennifer Wilson's description left an overnight case there- and whether Sherlock has been there, too."

He decided that texting wasn't good enough- he figured that Sherlock would now just not reply, or worse, have turned his phone off. He decided to go to Montague Street and force Sherlock to tell him what the hell he was supposed to have seen. Better to be called an idiot than to miss anything important in the investigation.

oOo

Unfortunately for Lestrade, Montague Street turned up empty- and no sign that Sherlock had been there for some time, as there was still post on the floor, untouched. He texted again

**Are you at Baker Street? GL**

There was no reply. That annoyed Greg. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more irritated he got. The squad car waiting outside on Montague Street delivered him to Baker Street and he told the PC to head back to the Yard. He unlocked the front door, and went up the stairs, and was nearly half way up when he heard Mrs Hudson call out.

"Oh, Inspector, the boys have gone out again. In and out, they've certainly been busy tonight!"

He paused and looked down. "I don't suppose you know where they were going?"

"Oh, I couldn't say; you know young men, they wouldn't confide in me. But, Sherlock was certainly happy. I mean earlier this evening it was all he could do to contain himself, shouting 'the Game is on', like some sort of over-excited teenager with his xbox." She frowned a little. "I mean, it's wonderful to see him so happy again; he's been a bit down lately, but is it right to be quite so happy about a series of suicides? " She looked a little flustered, as if her loyalties were slightly at odds with social niceties.

He gave her a reassuring smile. "Mrs Hudson, I know he has an unusual taste in case work, but if he is pleased to be back at work, then I think we can both be happy for him. That said, I'm going to wait here for him." He headed up another step and then stopped. "Did I hear you correctly- was the flatmate with him when they went out again?"

"Oh yes, Doctor Watson! He's just perfect, isn't he? I am so glad that Sherlock found someone suitable."

Greg was curious. "Did Sherlock say where he met him or what his background is?"

"Well, I won't have just  _anyone_  as a tenant; I hope you know I have standards, Inspector. When I asked, Sherlock told me that Doctor Watson is a former military man, invalided home from Afghanistan. That's why he has the cane. From what I've seen of him, he seems a really nice man."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson, I'll just make myself at home and wait for them to return."

She smiled and went back to her own flat, as Greg let himself in and walked into the chaos of half unpacked stuff of Sherlock's. He looked around to see what progress had been made, and that's when he saw the case. The pink case. Sitting on its own, in front of the fire. Unzipped. Crucial evidence in the case, and just left there. No phone call to Lestrade that it had been recovered. Yet another example of Sherlock trying to play by his own bloody rules, and ignoring all the police protocols that would be needed to photograph and document where it was found, and process the place for trace evidence.  _He thinks he's so bloody clever!_ Lestrade saw red.

If Sherlock had been in the room, he'd have probably handcuffed the idiot and dragged him down to spend a night in a cell to consider the stupidity of what he had just done. By compromising the evidence in this way, Sherlock might have jeopardised anything that they could find in the case or about the suitcase case that could be used in evidence- which could let a serial murderer walk free. What it would do to Lestrade's career if this happened was too scary to think about right now.

Equally distressing to Greg, however, was the fact that Sherlock had obviously found something in the case that had led him back out onto the streets of London, in pursuit of the murderer- without telling Greg what the hell he was doing and where he was going. Not only did he have no proper backup,  _yet again_ ; if Mrs Hudson was to be believed, he had dragged along his flatmate, an innocent civilian, along for the ride- and the risk. He put his hand to his forehead, closed his eyes and sighed in despair.

oOo

It took Lestrade almost a half hour to calm down, and think clearly through what action he could take. If he contacted Mycroft and told him the truth, it was likely that Sherlock would never be allowed to touch another case again. If he told his superiors about it, then Sherlock would never be allowed to work with the Yard again. But, if Sherlock was allowed to get away with it, he'd never respect any rules set by the DI again. Something had to be done, and Greg had to figure a way out of this mess.

A call was made to Sally Donovan, and he explained what he wanted and where he wanted it. She could not contain her "I told you so!" and was almost gleeful. "Oh, I will get  _plenty_  of volunteers, Guv; don't you worry!" He made it clear to her that this was not an official action on the record, and it certainly did not need to involve the proper Drugs Squad; it would stay as an inside "training exercise", and allow the team to show the consulting detective that he'd best mind his manners and procedures with a little more commitment in the future.

Sally couldn't resist asking, "What happens if we find something?"

"Then that's a matter for me, Detective Sergeant, not you. Now get organised and over here as soon as possible."

Sally laid it on a bit thick; squad cars screeched to a halt and the team poured out. Poor Mrs Hudson was left in a right state when they stormed upstairs after she answered the doorbell. When the landlady asked what they were doing, it was CSE Anderson who shouted back down at her, "This is a drugs bust!" Mrs Hudson looked horrified, and scurried back to her own flat, saying "this must be a mistake, surely not Sherlock? He'd promised…"

When they got into the flat, Lestrade told them to look carefully for any evidence of drugs, and the team got to work. He then realised that having the police cars outside might tip Sherlock off, and stop him from returning to face the music, so he ordered the cars back to the local station. And then he sat in Sherlock's chair- the leather and chrome one that he had brought with him from Montague Street- and he waited.

It was only twenty minutes later that he heard the front door bang shut, and he heard voices down on the ground floor, Sherlock's baritone and presumably the flatmate, talking and laughing. Greg called the team in from where they were taking Sherlock's bedroom apart, and told them to get to work on the living room and kitchen- he wanted Sherlock to walk in and see just what Greg was doing- and he would know why, as well. He sent Anderson and Sally into the kitchen, where they were most likely to find something.

He heard the doorbell ring and then the front door onto Baker Street opened and shut again, followed by Sherlock shouting for Mrs Hudson, something about the flat. Then Mrs Hudson's worried tones were followed by the pounding feet as Sherlock came running up the stairs. The consulting detective came charging into the living room and then crossed straight to where Greg was sitting with a little smile on his face.

"What are you doing?!" Sherlock was angry.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid."  _As in, get real Sherlock; I won't be played this way. There are rules, and you've just broken too many of them for me to sit back and take this._

"You can't just break into my flat." Greg realised that this must be in deference to the flatmate, the doctor who had followed Sherlock into the room, and was now watching the police officers going through Sherlock's things with some amazement. It was unlikely that he had been told that a policeman had a key, avoiding too much information too early in a relationship, lest it scare the doctor off. So, Greg just toughed it out:

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't  _break_  into your flat."

"Well, what do you call this then?"

Lestrade looked around innocently at the officers before returning to look at Sherlock. With a smirk, he answered "It's a drugs bust."

Sherlock's eyes blazed with anger, which Greg expected. What caught him by surprise, however, was the reaction of the doctor.

"Seriously?! This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!"

Greg realised that Sherlock could not have told his flatmate much, and that this revelation might jeopardise the man's willingness to share the flat, and that in turn could bring down the consulting detective's ability to work cases, again. The threat was real, and he wanted Sherlock to acknowledge it. Without that, he might never be willing to uphold their arrangement. Greg was applying a lot of pressure here, but he needed Sherlock to acknowledge that he could not ignore the rules.

Realising what was at stake, Sherlock turned away from Lestrade and walked closer to John, He looked hesitant and nervous. "John…"

But the doctor was still focussing on Lestrade. "I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational." Greg was surprised that the older man seemed willing to defend his new flatmate after only an evening in his company.

Sherlock leaned in a bit closer. "John, you probably want to shut up now."

"Yeah, but come on…" The shorter man looked up at the taller brunet and Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment. The doctor seemed then suddenly realised the significance of the silence.

"No."

"What?"

"You?" with incredulity.

Greg watched the exchange between the two men with something approaching amazement. Sherlock didn't like people intruding on his personal space and he usually kept well away from others, too, and as for the kind of eye contact he had given the blonde man, it was another obvious clue that there was something rather different about their relationship.

"Shut up." Sherlock snapped and turned back to Lestrade, angry now that the detective had embarrassed him in front of his new flatmate.

"I'm not your sniffer dog." Sherlock snarled at Greg.

Lestrade decided he could not afford to let up, so he replied, "No,  _Anderson_  is my sniffer dog." He nodded to the kitchen,

"What? An..."

The sliding doors between the living room and the kitchen opened to reveal several more officers in there searching. Anderson turned toward Sherlock and waved.

Sherlock went ballistic. "Anderson, what are  _you_  doing here on a drugs bust?!"

The Crime Scene Examiner smirked, "Oh, I  _volunteered_."

Greg continued, "They all did. They're not strictly speaking  _on_  the drugs squad, but they're very keen," turning the pressure up yet another notch.

Donovan backed into view between the doors, holding a small glass jar with some round objects in it. "Are these  _human_  eyes?" Her disgust was clear.

"Put those back!"

"They were in the microwave!"

"It's an  _experiment!_ "

Lestrade butted in, "Keep looking guys." He stood up and walked over to Sherlock. "Or, you could help us properly, and I'll stand them down."

Sherlock was incensed and he began to pace like a caged animal. "This is  _childish!"_

"Well, I am  _dealing_  with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do  _not_  go off on your own. Clear?"

Sherlock stopped his pacing and leaned in toward Greg, glaring at him. "Oh, what, so-so-so, you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?" The stutter told Greg everything he needed to know about how much pressure Sherlock was feeling. But he couldn't let up or give in. He had to make his point. And he knew Sherlock better than anyone else in the room did. So he just said, "it stops being  _pretend_  if they find anything."

Sherlock shouted loudly, "I am  _clean_!" so that everyone in the flat could hear it, including the doctor.

Lestrade wouldn't be moved. "But is your  _flat_? All of it?" He knew that somewhere Sherlock would have stashed a contingency plan. Sherlock would know that he knew, too.

The brunet stopped beside Lestrade, unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his left sleeve. "I don't even  _smoke_!"

Greg did the same. "Neither do I." The flatmate was watching him and Sherlock with a puzzled look on his face, as the DI continued, "...so let's work together."

He let that sink in, and decided to re-focus Sherlock on the case. "We've found Rachel."

That had the desired effect. Instantly, Sherlock turned his attention back to him. "Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

That provoked a frown, clearly not what he was expecting. "Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

Anderson butted in from the kitchen. "Never mind  _that_ , we've found the case." He pointed to the pink case in the living room and carried on sarcastically, "according to  _someone_ , the  _murderer_  has the case, and we found it in the hand of our favourite psychopath."

Sherlock whirled around and snarled, "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson; I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."

He turned back to Greg, and said rather aggressively, "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her.  _I_ need to question her _._ "

Greg just looked at the tall brunet who could hardly handle control his agitation. "She's dead."

"Excellent!"

That provoked a startled reaction from the flatmate, who was eying the two men having this tense exchange.

Sherlock did not notice. "How, when and why? Is there a connection? There  _has_  to be."

Greg shook his head. "Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago." Out of the corner of his eye, Greg saw the doctor grimace sadly and turn away. Sherlock on the other hand, just looked confused. The effect of the information, on top of the agitation he had been experiencing led Sherlock to stutter again. "No, that's..that's not right. How...Why would she do that?  _Why?!"_

Anderson piped up again from the kitchen. "Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup- sociopath; I'm seeing it now."

Sherlock whirled around to confront the man. Angrily, "She didn't  _think_  about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort, it would have  _hurt_." He set off again pacing back and forth, increasingly agitated. Greg started worrying that it might be adding up to too much pressure.

The flatmate spoke up. "You said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he  _makes_  them take it. Well, maybe he...I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow..."

Sherlock stopped his pacing and looked at the shorter man, then said dismissively "Yeah, but that was  _ages_  ago. Why would she still be upset?"

It must have been the aghast look that Watson gave him, or the fact that the rest of the people in the room stopped what they were doing and went quiet at the question. Greg almost flinched at the insensitivity of it, and he was  _used_  to Sherlock. The consulting detective paused, sensing that something was wrong as he glanced around the room. Expecting the young man to look at him for guidance, Greg had his eye on him when Sherlock turned back to the doctor, and asked quietly "Not good?"

John glanced around at the others before turning his eyes back to Sherlock, " _bit_ notgood, yeah. _"_

In that moment, Greg realised that something very significant was happening; Sherlock was trying to connect with the doctor at a deeper level than the older man had ever seen him attempt with another person, Greg included. Sherlock's body language was entirely focussed on the shorter man. The brunet shook off the awkward moment, and stepped closer, looking at the doctor intently.

"Yeah, but if you were dying...if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

Watson locked eyes with Sherlock and said quietly. "Please God, let me live."

Exasperated, Sherlock just snapped, "Oh, use your imagination!"

The blonde lifted his chin and said calmly in the face of Sherlock's insensitivity, "I don't have to."

Greg remembered what Mrs Hudson said, that the flatmate was an army doctor invalided home from Afghanistan. So, he was speaking from personal experience, and standing up to the consulting detective's usual belittling style. Not aggressively, just firmly, without malice or judgement. And Sherlock realised it, too. Normally, when Greg had witnessed Sherlock being socially gauche, the younger man made it clear that he didn't care what others thought. A lack of empathy and social awkwardness came with the territory that was Sherlock. Everyone in the room apart from the flatmate had been on the receiving end of that ineptitude.

With this man, however, Sherlock seemed to realise that he'd stepped over a boundary. He paused, and blinked a few times, shifting his body a little, as if physically apologising. But the need to solve the case took over, and he was off again.

"Yeah, but if you were clever,  _really_  clever...Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers; she  _was_  clever." He broke eye contact with Watson and started to pace again, "She's trying to tell us something." He was really, really worked up and now trying to focus his attention down, trying to block out the presence of so many people in the flat, and concentrate on the case.

Greg tried to see things through his eyes. Sherlock was in an unfamiliar place. Too many people including a number he detested and a flatmate who he would know he shouldn't offend this early into their relationship. Too much noise, assaulting his senses. Add to that a confusing case, and no wonder the man was struggling to keep control.

Greg started to regret the whole idea of pushing Sherlock like this. While relationships between his team and the consulting detective had been rocky from the start, Lestrade hadn't thought through what a new flatmate might make of all this. What if Sherlock went into melt-down, would that chase off the doctor, and make Mycroft pull the plug on case work?

To make matters worse, Mrs Hudson came to the door of the living room and asked "isn't your doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

He was pacing and just blurted out "I didn't order a taxi. Go away."

Mrs Hudson looked at the room. "Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

The doctor just explained calmly, "it's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson."

Until now, she probably had not understood that would involve such an intensive search. She wailed, "But, they're just for my hip; they're herbal soothers!" Her distress was the final straw. Sherlock was facing away from the door, but he stopped his pacing, stood straight and just shouted.

"SHUT UP! Everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

Anderson shouted back, "What? My  _face_  is?!"

Sherlock didn't answer, and Greg suddenly realised that the brunet couldn't answer; he was just about to go into a full melt-down. The DI stepped in and said firmly, "Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back."

The CSE complained, "Oh, for God's sake!"

Greg silenced him with a glare. "Your  _back_ , now, please!"

For a split second, no one moved, all eyes on Sherlock in fear of what might be about to happen.


	7. Chapter 7

All eyes on Sherlock, the people in the room waited for the explosion.

The tall brunet was still standing with his back to the people in the room, muttering to himself, trying to cling to the threads of deduction as if they were his very lifeline. "Come on, think! Quick!"

Mrs Hudson at that stage did the one thing Greg was dreading- she interrupted to ask, "what about your taxi?"

He whirled around and shouted furiously, "MRS HUDSON!"

Shocked by his fury, she put her hand to her mouth and ran from the room. Greg started to move toward Sherlock to try to calm him down, but then stopped as he saw Sherlock stop.

"Oh!"

Greg watched the smile blossom on Sherlock's face. He relaxed a tiny bit; maybe melt-down had been pushed aside by revelation?

"Oh, she was clever, clever, yes!" He could hardly contain his excitement as he walked away from them and then suddenly spun back to face them. "She's cleverer than you lot, and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't  _lose_  her phone. She never  _lost_  it. She  _planted_  it on him!" Unable to hold still, he started pacing again.

"When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

Greg voiced what he suspected everyone in the room was asking, "But, how?"

Sherlock stopped and stared at him in surprise. "Wha…? What do you mean, how?"

Lestrade was confused.

"Rachel!" Sherlock looked expectantly at the others, who looked back blankly.

As if they hadn't heard him the first time, he repeated himself. "Don't you see? Rachel!"

Greg wondered if this was some strange form of break down- Sherlock wasn't making any sense, and he started to worry.

Sherlock didn't help. In an odd tone and with a strange sort of look on his face, he said"Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." This obscure comment was delivered half sarcastically, half bewildered. Greg couldn't keep his mind from leaping to an awful conclusion- o _h, shit, I think he's cracking up._

Sherlock just scowled at him. "Rachel is not a name."

It was John who decided to try to make sense of what his flatmate was saying. "Then what is it?"

Sherlock focused on the doctor. "John, on the luggage, there's a label- e mail address." Then he turned away and sat down at the table, and woke his laptop up. "Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did all her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone. It's e-mail enabled."

John read out the e mail address. Sherlock typed it into the laptop, talking to himself, "So, there was a website for her account…the username is her e-mail address…. All together now, the password is?"

John walked over to stand behind him "…Rachel."

Anderson was not impressed. "So, we can read her e-mails. So what?"

Sherlock sneered. "Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

Lestrade had moved closer to John and Sherlock. He voiced his concern…"Unless he got rid of it."

The flatmate answered before Sherlock could. "We know he didn't."

Sherlock was looking at the screen impatiently. He'd typed in the password and clicked on the location function, but it was taking it's time. "Come on, come on, quickly!"

Mrs Hudson came back up the stairs, and tentatively entered the room again. "Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver…"

Sherlock got up from the table and walked toward her. "Mrs Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He was trying to get rid of her, but at least he wasn't shouting, for which Greg was thankful. The young man then turned to Greg and said dramatically, "We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter….we're going to have to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever."

Greg wondered about that. "We'll just have a map reference, not a name."

Sherlock dismissed his caution. "It's a start!"

The doctor had kept his eye on the laptop as it churned away. "Sherlock…"

That drew the tall brunet over in a flash, where he leaned closely over the shorter man's shoulder to see the screen. "What is it? Quickly, where?"

The doctor's surprise was clear. "It's here. It's in 221b Baker Street."

Sherlock straightened up, startled. "How can it be here?  _HOW?"_

Greg sighed. "Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere."

Sherlock snorted. "What, and I didn't notice it?  _ME?_   _I_  didn't notice?"

The flatmate told Greg that he had texted him at Jennifer Wilson's number and that he had called back, earlier in the evening, but that the number had been blocked. Lestrade took this in, but called out to the Yard team, "Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere, belonging to the victim…"

Sherlock just stood absolutely still in the room as the others went about frantically searching. Greg kept an eye on him as he went about the search. From time to time, the younger man moved his head, as if visualising something. Greg had seen him do it countless times before.  _Is he working something out?_ Or, was this the aftereffects of the near melt-down? He didn't look too good. Then the brunet's attention was taken by the sound of a text alert, which he scanned briefly. But, Greg saw that he was still at a loss, and showing clear signs of confusion.

That made Greg worried. He stopped his search and was trying to find the words to say that wouldn't embarrass the young man in front of the others. But, before Greg could do it, the flatmate got there first. "Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock didn't look at him, just vaguely mumbled, "What? Yeah, yeah, I…I'm fine."

Greg watched the doctor sizing up Sherlock's confused state. "So, how can the phone be here?" That's exactly what Greg would have done, try to ground the young man and get his attention focused back on the case. Sherlock's reply worried the DI; the vague "dunno" was just so…unlike Sherlock. Greg's level of alarm rose.

The flatmate didn't give up. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he said, "I'll try it again." That stopped the DI, who suddenly realised that if the doctor rang the number again, the sound of the ringing would tell them where the phone was in the flat.  _Surely, Sherlock would have figured that out already?_ But Sherlock, just muttered, "Good idea," as if he wasn't particularly interested anymore, and headed toward the living room door. As he started to key re-dial, the doctor noticed, stopped what he was doing and asked "Where are  _you_  going?"

Greg heard the reply "Fresh air…just popping outside for a moment; won't be long." The casual tone sounded horribly false. He watched in disbelief, as Sherlock headed down the stairs.  _Walking out in the middle of an on-going investigation, just as the key piece of evidence is about to be revealed? That is not good._ Whatever the stresses of the night had wrought, clearly Sherlock was now in need of an escape, an opportunity to shut down for a few minutes. Greg wondered if he was going to go outside to smoke a cigarette and try to calm his nerves. He decided to give Sherlock a bit of peace. From bitter experience, he knew that if he pressed too hard when Sherlock was wrestling with his sensory issues, it could lead to a pretty bruising exchange, with the young man resenting being reminded of his disability.  _Not in front of the new flatmate._

But the doctor wouldn't let it go, so he asked again, "You sure you're all right?" As Sherlock hurried down the stairs, Lestrade heard the reply, "I'm fine."

Greg would give him five minutes to pull himself together and then go down and see if he could help. The officers continued their search. The doctor just stood there for a moment, then walked to the window and looked down.  _Probably keeping an eye on Sherlock; he's clearly twitched that something is not right._  Greg hoped that this wouldn't end in the potential flatmate realising that Sherlock's behaviour wasn't just some form of eccentricity. He had no idea what kind of doctor the guy was, and whether he'd recognise a neuro-atypical condition. Well, he wasn't going to be the one to tell him, lest Sherlock blame him for chasing the man off.

A few moments later, the doctor said, "He just got in a cab." He turned away from the window, looked at Lestrade and said in a worried tone, "It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab."

Donovan was standing next to Lestrade as this was said, and she just tutted in irritation. "I told you, he does that. " She looked pointedly at the DI. "He bloody left again." She stalked off to the kitchen and shouted in annoyance. "We're wasting our time!"

John realised he was still holding his phone in his hand. He hit the re-call key; "I'm calling the phone. It's ringing out."

The flat was silent.

Lestrade frowned. "If it's ringing, it's not here."

John pulled the phone away from his ear, and turned back to the table with the laptop on it. "I'll try the search again."

Donovan came back from the kitchen to confront Lestrade. "Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll  _always_  let you down. You're wasting your time.  _All_ of our time."

Greg was trying to make sense of it. Having just had the whole drugs bust orchestrated to make the point that Sherlock needed to work together with the Yard, would he really have gone off on to pursue a lead? For once, his behaviour wasn't defiant or cocky. Sherlock's departure wasn't the result of his usual "Oh!" realisation. There was no indication that he'd come to understand something suddenly and gone haring off in pursuit. His distracted manner, his peculiar behaviour worried the detective. Maybe the cab had been taken to get away from the flat, the intrusion, the people, before he had a proper melt-down?

As he went through these possibilities, he knew that it was too late- in either case. He sighed and then said loudly so everyone on the team could hear, "Okay, everybody. Done here."


	8. Chapter 8

Lestrade was in a quandary. He had no idea why Sherlock had left. There was nothing normal at all about it. He could be in the midst of a melt-down, or about to be spectacularly disobedient and be on the hunt for the killer. And Greg had no idea which of the two might be the case. He couldn't help but voice his concern out loud. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?"

The other police officers were packing up their kit, so it was the flatmate who responded to his rhetorical question. The doctor shrugged and pointed out, "You know him better than I do."

Greg thought about the times he'd worked crime scenes with Sherlock. "I've known him for five years. And, no, I don't."

The doctor just looked at him calmly, if a bit puzzled. "Then why do you put up with him?"

Greg just looked pained. It was something Donovan and everyone else on the team asked him every time. "Because I'm desperate, that's why."

On his way out the door, he realised that his comment might be misunderstood by Sherlock's new flatmate, and he didn't want to put the man off the idea of sharing the flat with the consulting detective. So, he turned back to look at Watson again.

"And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a  _good_  one."

Sally Donovan was going down the stairs in front of him and overheard that comment. She then spent the entire trip back to the Yard complaining about the Sherlock, and why Greg felt the need to get him involved. He tried to stop her.

"Thanks to him, we have recovered the case."

"No, thanks to him, we won't be able to use it in evidence, because he moved it from the point of discovery and contaminated it for forensic purposes." She was as cross as Lestrade had been when he first discovered the pink case.

She carried on. "Thanks to him, Anderson will be half the night trying to find something from the case that we can actually use to dig up another lead. And, then he spins us this story about the victim's phone but it actually shows up on the GPS as being at his flat. I think you need to think that he might be a suspect, Guv."

" _WHAT?!"_ Lestrade was shocked.

"I've always said it- if he got bored enough, then he'd start killing people. He's a psychopath. That's what psychopaths do. And being kept off cases officially for the past three months could have driven him to it."

He snorted. "Just leave off, Donovan. He's got every conceivable alibi for the times of the suicides, and I know there will be CCTV footage that can prove it, too. You really need to get a handle on that animosity of yours. I know he can be a wanker, but his deduction skills have made our team,  _your_  team's reputation the best in the Division. So, just watch it with the ridiculous accusations."

She'd gone off home to sulk. Greg had gone home to see if Louise had cooked an evening meal.

Greg was just finishing off his dried out pasta bake supper when his phone rang. He'd left the Yard in a thoroughly pissed off mood, and the meal wasn't improving things. Louise had just left it in the oven with a note under the fridge magnet that said "check your phone messages sometime!" When he did key up voice mail, he found one from her: "I'm out with the girls tonight; could be late, don't wait up- that is, assuming you  _ever_  bother to show up. Really, Greg- you are such a bloody workaholic, sometimes I wonder whether I should bother fixing you a supper." There was a sigh and then she hung up.

So, when the fork was nearly to his mouth and his phone rang, he hoped it was Louise, having a good time, so he could explain. When he checked caller ID, however, it was the Yard, so he grimaced.  _Not another bloody case. Why do these things always happen at night?_

According to the Night Desk Sergeant, it was an emergency, so he did ring the number back, even though he didn't recognise it.

"Oh, thank God, Detective Inspector, this is John Watson."

For a split second, Greg knew he recognised the voice, but couldn't place it.

"Sherlock's flatmate, remember?"

That got Greg's attention in a hurry. "Is he ok? Has something happened?" He could hear traffic noises in the background. Then he heard the flatmate say something, "…er, left here. Turn left here."

The guy came back on. "I got Sherlock's laptop search thingy to try again, and this time it tracked the phone moving away from Baker Street. I'm in the back of a cab now, trying to chase it down. We're somewhere south of the river, just seen a sign for Denmark Hill."

"OK, but why are  _you_  trying to recover the phone? Where's Sherlock?"

"I don't know, do I? But there was something definitely odd about Sherlock leaving like that, and I think that his getting in that cab at Baker Street and this phone in motion are in some way connected."

Greg considered that. "Maybe, but on the other hand, Sherlock could have just headed back to his old flat for a bit of peace and quiet. He was kind of put out about the drugs bust thing." He decided not to tell the flatmate about possible meltdowns, sensory processing disorders and ASD. He'd leave Sherlock to explain, if the guy hung around long enough.

Watson disagreed with Lestrade's assessment of Sherlock's departure. "I really think you need to be paying attention to this. If the phone is in motion, and Sherlock left the flat, don't you think he'd be after it?"

"Maybe." It was the best Greg could do. He didn't understand what was going on in Sherlock's head. His behaviour tonight was just so abnormal. "Look, when the phone stops moving, give Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan a call at the Yard and pass on the address. Then get the cab to take you home. She'll send a squad car to investigate. Don't you do anything daft, Doctor…" He reached in his memory for the guy's last name "…uh, Watson, isn't it?"

"Yeah, thanks a lot," and rang off. If there was a trace of sarcasm in the man's tone, Lestrade chose to ignore it. He was still trying to puzzle the flatmate out. He seemed fairly innocuous. An ex-Army doctor back from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. How that could possibly fit with Sherlock Holmes in all his extraordinariness, Greg struggled to understand. Yet, on the evidence of what he'd seen in Baker Street during the evening, Lestrade had to admit that there was clearly a connection forming, almost a kind of chemistry going on. It worried him.  _Who is this guy? What are his intentions?_  As soon as he thought that, he grimaced _. I'm thinking like some over-protective big brother I know._  But, for all Greg knew, Sherlock might have met the doctor in some gay bar somewhere, and they were already on intimate terms. Over the years, Greg had been puzzled by Sherlock's sexual orientation, or rather a lack of a clear indication- or indeed of any interest at all in such matters. Sherlock would always be a mystery wrapped up in an enigma, and that was putting it politely. Lestrade had no idea what he did with his spare time, and as long as it didn't involve drugs or drug dealers, he was okay with it.

That said, tonight had been different. Greg had already sent Sherlock half a dozen texts since he left Baker Street, none of which had been answered, but he tried again now.

**10.59 Where the hell are you? Phone on the move again. If you want to know where, call me. GL**

Ninety minutes later, his phone rang. This time he recognised the ID as he nearly choked on the piece of pasta he'd just started to swallow.  _Sherlock, you wanker! You'd better have a good excuse…._

He thumbed on the call, and said, with his mouth full. "Just where the hell are you? The next time you show up at a crime scene, I swear I will just handcuff you to a railing. You have no right to go bolting off and not telling anyone where you are going."

"Detective Inspector." The baritone voice was a little higher pitched than normal, and that brought a pang of worry to Greg. Had Sherlock escaped the drugs bust to go somewhere private for a melt-down? Lestrade was torn.

"What's happened?" His concern was evident.

There was a deep breath. "You need to send a team to Roland Kerr College; that's on Warner Road, in Camberwell, SE11. I've just… located… the serial suicide murderer. He's a cab driver by the name of Jeff Hope..."

Lestrade broke in, "Don't do  _anything_ , Sherlock. Just sit tight and wait for back-up."

But the consulting detective just carried on talking, "… unfortunately, he's dead. Killed by a single gun-shot to the heart. A remarkable piece of marksmanship. Not my doing, I should emphasise, even though he was attempting to convince me to take one of those poison pills at the time."

 _Oh, shit._  Greg took a deep breath. "Are you alright?!"

Sherlock just calmly replied, "Of course. He's the one who just bled out on the floor. The second floor of …." There was a brief gap, as Greg guessed he was looking around. He heard the sound of footsteps and then a door opening. "…Room 231, Block E. Oh, and do be careful, there is a virtually identical building right next door; this one is on the left when you view it from the street."

"Shut up, Sherlock, sit down and stay exactly where you are. Do not move, do you hear me?" He was already trying to put on his jacket while keeping the hand with his phone to his ear.

"Oh, don't worry, Lestrade, I have no intention of going anywhere. This is far too interesting a crime scene for me to be leaving anytime soon."

oOo

It took the Yard team 17 minutes to get there. Because he was at home in north London, Lestrade took almost twice as long. When he charged up the stairs and into the room, he saw Sherlock was sitting quietly in what appeared to be a classroom chair, tucked into one side of a lab table. He was looking at something on his phone as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in the room. But, Greg could clearly see that this wasn't the case, because on the floor to his left was the body of a grey-haired man, lying in a pool of blood. A Crime Scene Examiner was measuring the corpse's liver temperature.

The rest of the team was already spread out in the room, processing the scene. Sherlock finished what he was doing on the phone, and stood up to face the Detective Inspector.

"Took your time, Lestrade,  _again_."

Greg just looked at Sherlock in weary surprise. "What the hell happened, Sherlock? Who is this guy?"

Sherlock looked down at the body. "Meet Jefferson Hope, Licensed Hackney taxi driver, aged 58, divorced or at least estranged from his wife, two kids, lives alone, suffering from an inoperable aneurism that could have blown at any point since it was diagnosed three years ago. He's been paid by someone he calls a 'sponsor' a sum of money for every person he could kill this way. Four successes so far, I was to be his fifth, if he could convince me to take one of the pills out of one of those two bottles." He stopped the verbal onslaught long enough to gesture at the table, where a blue suited Crime Scene Examiner was putting a gun into a plastic bag.

Sherlock continued, "No, the gun isn't real. His other victims thought it was; it was how he got them to listen to them when he offered them the choice of being shot or taking their chance that one of the two pill bottles contained something harmless. And, no, I don't know who the sponsor is or why he would do such a thing."

"But, what's the connection between the taxi driver and the victims?" Greg was trying to get his head around the link between the victims. "How did he choose them?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's the whole point, isn't it! There  _is_  no connection. They were just fares, randomly selected. A taxi cab is the perfect murder weapon. It passes unnoticed anywhere, could pull up at any building, at Lauriston Gardens or a city office block. He could hunt in the middle of a crowd- a train station taxi queue, on the street in the pouring rain. Who did every victim trust, even if they didn't know them? A cab driver is invisible, and his victims willingly got into the cab. It was…brilliant."

Greg listened to the explanation delivered at blistering speed, and realised that Sherlock was seriously wound up. Tighter than a drum. It was different from his usual post case persona. That tended to be smug and satisfied, enjoying the opportunity to show off how much he had deduced and how stupid the police had been. There was none of that smugness now. And there were unfinished issues.

"So, who killed him?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't a clue." He turned and pointed to the bullet hole in the glass, and to the room beyond. "I was talking to the cabbie, he was trying to provoke me into taking a pill. And then there was a single shot. By the time I got to the window, there was no one there."

Greg could see through the window that there were a couple of officers in the room, processing for fingerprints, and gun-shot residue. He followed the line of sight from the bullet hole and saw another officer digging a bullet out of the wooden door on the other side of the room. "Well, forensics might give us some ideas."

Sherlock turned back to the table and picked up his phone, then started to turn towards the door.

"No, we've not done here, Sherlock." Greg wasn't about to let this one go. Despite every advice to the contrary, the tall brunet had disregarded every rule of engagement that had been set by Mycroft and Lestrade. Yet, he seemed totally oblivious to the fact, concentrating instead on something on his phone.

"Sherlock!" That brought the young man's attention back to Greg. "That little exercise at Baker Street was supposed to impress upon you the need to follow the rules. I'm not joking- this time you've gone too far. How did you track this guy down, and why the hell didn't you tell me, or call for back-up?"

"I didn't 'track him down', Lestrade; he came for me. He was outside Baker Street when I went downstairs. He had a gun. In the dark, I couldn't see what I saw once he tried to use it in here- it's a fake."

Greg was watching Sherlock. There was something not quite right with the explanation. A little too glib? He could not shake the feeling that Sherlock wasn't telling him the whole truth.

"You didn't take a pill, did you?"

Sherlock frowned. "No, of course not; I know how the other victims died. Why would I willingly take something I knew might kill me?"

One of the forensic team called out, "Found one of the pills on the floor, here sir."

Sherlock nodded. "That's the one I had in my hand when the shot came through the window."

That made Greg look back at him. "You  _handled_  the poison?"

"Problem?"

Greg just put his hand to his forehead. "Right, Downstairs now. There is an ambulance at the front of the building. Get checked out,  _NOW."_

Sherlock looked surprised. "Why?"

Greg lost it. He walked up to Sherlock, looked him straight in the eye and said "Because you've just handled a poison, and there could be traces on your hands, that could be transferred to your mouth, by accident. Not to mention the fact that you were targeted by a serial killer, who was shot and died not two feet away from you tonight. Any one of those is a reason to get looked over by a paramedic, so move it."

Sherlock glared back at him. "I chose the right bottle; mine wasn't the poison."

"You can't be sure of that until we test the bottles, by which time it will be too late. So, downstairs- now."

The consulting detective wore an expression very close to a pout, but he decided to obey.

oOo

Once the ferocity of his glare propelled Sherlock out the door, Lestrade turned to the crime scene crew and started asking questions. Ten minutes later, he realised that he had learned far more from Sherlock's explanation than he was going to get out of his people. Apart from the bullet, there was nothing new. The CSE who had dug it out of the wooden door frame bagged it and handed it over to Lestrade. It was a 9 millimetre slug, with nothing out of the ordinary visible to the naked eye. He did stand where the officer thought the cabbie was when the bullet hit, and look through the bullet hole in the glass window, then across the gap between the two buildings- quite a distance for a pistol.

He checked with the team processing the room where the shooter had been, but they'd come up with nothing conclusive. There were literally hundreds of fingerprints and partials on the door and window. "Sorry, Guv, but this is a school, after all. Doubt any of these are going to be on file anywhere. We can try, but it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

Greg tried to think it through. It was possible that if Sherlock was in immediate danger, one of the SO6 crew nominally assigned to keep him safe could have been responsible, but normal protocol would have required the officer to stay on site. Or, it could have been one of Mycroft's men, doing the same thing, but a whole lot less likely to stay until the police arrived. Both of these ideas depended, however, on the surveillance teams being aware of Sherlock's movements and being right behind him. They'd singularly failed to do so in the past, but might have got lucky this time. But, if so, why go to a room across from where he and the murderer actually were? It made no sense.

He went back down to the street level, where he could see Sherlock sitting on the back of an ambulance. One of the paramedics took off a finger clip from him and placed an orange blanket across his shoulders, provoking an annoyed look from the young man. As Greg came up, he complained, "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock." From the fact that he was still here and not being fussed over, Greg surmised that they had cleared him from having ingested any poison by accident.

Sherlock glared. "I'm not  _in_  shock."

Lestrade decided to lighten the mood with a smile. "Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes in disgust. Then he returned to the unfinished business of the crime scene, and that alone told Greg that the young man was totally unbothered by the incident. "So, the shooter. No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but…we've got nothing to go on." Greg shrugged, as if he was still trying to put it together himself. No need to freak Sherlock out even more about the surveillance he was under by drawing attention to it.

Sherlock just looked at him. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Now it was Greg's turn to look askance. "Okay, gimme." If Sherlock knew it was one of Mycroft's people, he should have said earlier.

Sherlock stood up and started speaking quickly. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon- that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service…."

While he was delivering his deductions, Sherlock's eyes were wandering over the area. Greg saw his eyes come to rest, as his stream of words stuttered for a moment. Then he resumed for a moment "…nerves of steel…" before his verbal momentum came grinding to a halt. Greg looked to see what Sherlock was looking at, and saw the flatmate standing some distance behind the police tape, calmly watching the scene. The doctor was looking at Sherlock, but as Lestrade spotted him, he turned his head away.

Before Greg's brain could catch up with what his eyes had just seen, Sherlock turned back to look at him and take his attention away from the flatmate. "Actually, you know what? Ignore me."

Greg was thrown. Whatever he expected from Sherlock, he'd never, ever admitted to being wrong before. He blurted out, "Sorry?" to check if he'd actually heard the young man correctly.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er…the shock talking." He started to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Greg couldn't believe Sherlock; something was clearly going on. Was he worried about what the flatmate must be making of all this? He'd seen the man behind the tape, and suddenly lost interest in the deductions he was making. Was he concerned that the doctor would pull out of sharing a flat with someone who ended up routinely at crime scenes like these? Greg was trying to make sense of it when Sherlock replied, "I just need to talk about…the rent."

So Greg was right, the flatmate was somehow responsible for Sherlock's changed behaviour. "But, I've still got questions for you."

Sherlock stopped and looked back at him in irritation. "Oh, what  _now?_ I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" He flapped the edges of the orange fabric, as if to emphasise the diagnosis.

Greg wasn't buying any of it. "Sherlock!"

"And I just caught you a serial killer…more or less."

Lestrade just looked at him. From the point of view of the Yard and the team, Sherlock's assessment was quite right, and they should be grateful that it had ended as well as it did. The press would be delighted, and another successful clear up would be chalked up. But, Lestrade was well aware that Sherlock was keeping something important from him. He was mulling over what he should do, when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a black government car pulling onto the road leading to the crime scene. He decided Sherlock was about to have more than enough on his plate. With a smile, he said, "Okay, we'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go." He watched the young man walk off towards the flatmate. Sherlock pulled the blanket off his shoulders and bundled it up, tossing it into the open window of one the police cars, before ducking under the tape.  _So much for shock, Sherlock. Just what are you playing at?_

Lestrade watched as the taller man spoke to the shorter one. Whatever was said, it seemed to mollify the doctor, because as the pair began to walk along the side of the police tape, he could see that Sherlock was smiling and the doctor seemed to be in a good mood, too. They passed Sergeant Donovan and there was an exchange of words, but Greg could tell that this time, there was no ill will being communicated. Donovan just stared at the two men as they carried on past her.

Unfortunately, their path took them past the black car, now parked by the police tape.  _Uh oh. Here comes trouble._  Greg watched as Mycroft Holmes emerged. It was Watson who stopped first. But, that made sense when Greg realised the doctor had already met him, when he was "vetted." Then Sherlock strode over, his gait making his annoyance clear. There was a terse exchange of words, which Greg couldn't hear because they were turned away from him, but he could see their tense body language. Lestrade had only rarely seen the two brothers interact; Sherlock's relationship with his brother was fraught at the best of times, and Greg had been willing over the years to play intermediary so they didn’t have to come face-to-face. Sherlock's behaviour in front of his brother could be shocking. Greg hoped that for the sake of the flatmate, he'd keep his temper leashed this time.

It was a brief exchange, and then Sherlock stalked away. The shorter man stayed behind briefly, speaking to Mycroft and then hurried off after the consulting detective. Greg decided he needed answers, so he walked over to where Mycroft was staring down the road after the two men.

When Greg reached his side, he just greeted him, "Evening, Mr Holmes."

"Technically, it is good morning, Detective Inspector."

Greg smiled. Both the Holmes' could be remarkably pedantic when it suited. "I need a word with you. Have you been briefed about what happened here tonight?"

"I am aware of Sherlock's abduction, the cab driver's intentions, and the fact that they were thwarted by a skilled marksman."

"Was it one of your men who fired the gun?"

"Alas, no, Detective Inspector. I fear my people were a little too slow to realise what was going on."

Greg looked around. "And, I suppose it's safe to guess that DPG weren't involved either?"

Mycroft just sniffed. "Since when has SO6 been  _that_  competent?" His derision was plain. He continued, "Remarkably, I believe we have Doctor Watson to thank for a timely appearance."

Startled, Greg looked at the elder Holmes with astonishment. "What- the guy with a cane? The flatmate? He shot the serial killer? To protect Sherlock?" Each question was asked with increasing incredulity.

"Apparently," was the dry reply.

"Where the hell did he get a gun?"

Holmes looked at him as if he was an idiot. "I understand that army officers are issued a personal weapon, even doctors, Lestrade. His service record suggests he is a rather good shot- which is fortunate for my brother's sake, wouldn't you agree?"

The elder Holmes looked more intently at Greg. "If it had been SO6 or one of my people, the cabbie's death would be the end of the story. So, I am assuming that there will be no further investigation into the matter of who removed a serial killer."

Put that way, there was nothing that the DI could do except nod his agreement. But, the idea of Sherlock moving in with a man who had an illegal weapon, and who knew how to use it to lethal effect, and who would do so on the basis of …Greg had to count it, given how much had happened…on the basis of less than eight hours of sharing a flat. Well, that alarmed Greg.

"So, let me get this straight. You are happy for Sherlock to share a flat with an ex-Army doctor who was willing and able to kill a villain on the off-chance that he could convince your brother to take a poison pill?"

Mycroft's eyebrows raised in surprise. "You would prefer a drug dealer or a homeless person, would you, Lestrade? I am not entirely sure I understand the good doctor's motives yet, but he has rather proved his worth tonight. If Sherlock can manage to avoid irritating him to the point where he leaves, this could be a useful development indeed. Since neither you, your team, nor I or my team were able to give Sherlock the back-up he needed tonight, let us be glad that  _someone_  was willing and able to do just that."

And with that, the elder Holmes turned on his heel, and collected his PA who was texting by the side of the car. The pair got in, and the car drove off into the early morning darkness of south London.

As he turned back to the crime scene, Lestrade was wondering whether this new flatmate would be a good thing, or turn out to be the worst possible development. One thing for sure; he'd have to keep his eye on not only Sherlock in the future, but also on Doctor John Watson.

 


End file.
